Saturday, 13 May 2017

A Certain Romance...

The
breeze ruffles the tide edge into ragged waves that start to creep up the
Hilbre Swash, a small channel that runs part way along the east side of the
island.

One side
of the channel is smooth sand bank where in the high summer hundreds of terns
gather. The other side, the island side, is where the sandstone reefs begin.
They are a mess of seaweed and barnacles, truth be told you can’t see a whole
lot of sandstone close to the swash edge. The crustaceans and vegetation thin
out the higher up the shore you climb and that is where I am.

I have
selected an inconspicuous barnacle free spot to wait in relative comfort for
the tide to push some of the Dunlin currently enjoying a feed in the cool
waters of the swash, closer to me and in range of my lens. First though I turn
to appreciate the sunrise. Always special, even more so enjoying it from Hilbre
with the prospect of some shorebird photography on a rising tide. A tiny point
of pale yellow light appears above the docks of Liverpool. Above it the sky is
graded in many shades of citrus that fade to indigo the further you raise your
head away from the horizon to view the sky.

I lower
my view to the Dunlin once I have welcomed the day. They are a little nervous,
an unsuccessful Peregine attack twenty minutes earlier still has them worried.
It failed but they know the predator is still hungry and may return at any
moment. A Lesser Black-backed Gull lazily sways and swoops over them and it’s
enough to send the flock up in panic. It is a photo opportunity for me while
they are too distant for shots of individual birds.

They
land, closer this time, but still too far away for my purposes. I’ll have to
wait a little longer for my pictures of these Dunlin.

To my
left I spot a movement in a patch of gloopy mud between two reefs. It is
darting mouse-like around its muddy puddle. A Ringed Plover. I swing the camera
around. Something to have a go at while the Dunnies dawdle at the tide edge. It
too is nervous, keeping one eye on the sky in case the Peregrine returns.

I always
think this species looks worried anyway so it’s expression fits the foreboding
of the flock. The mud in its puddle is particularly slack and soft. It runs a
few paces then stops in usual plover style. After a few seconds its feet have
disappeared, sunk into the slop.

Another
movement catches my eye, a little further out this time, between the Ringo and
the Dunlin. The tide is rising but it hasn’t yet built the momentum to breach
the top of the first reef. The Dunnies remain fixed to the tide edge.

The
movement I have seen is a Whimbrel. This is a bonus. There are always plenty of
Whimbrel around at this time of year but they are usually very skittish and it
is only on chance encounters like this one that you can get pictures.

Sitting
still for some time I have obviously escaped its notice and it has drifted
closer and closer. Another one calls from the other side of the old lifeboat
slipway and it looks up, over its shoulder, and takes off heading in the
direction of the sound.

The
Dunnies are still too far away. I won’t go chasing them, I might disturb them
and that wouldn’t be fair play, I want to get these pictures with a clear
conscience. If I did spook them the pictures would be tainted, I would feel
like I’d failed. They may be nice to look at but I’d have a little nagging
guilt each time I saw them until I wouldn’t be able to view them at all. I have
too much respect for these birds.

There is
just a little something about these long distance migratory shorebirds. What it
is I often can’t quite put my finger on.

I think
of their journeys to and from breeding grounds in the far north… That is it, it
is the mystery, the daring adventure. There is a certain romance to their life,
so much of it spent unseen, high above us on epic flights or hidden away on
inaccessible arctic tundras. Mysterious treeless lands bathed in perpetual
light in summer then shrouded in total darkness for months. I know in a couple
of weeks once these birds have refuelled they will be away from Hilbre, landing
in places I can only imagine for now and hope to visit myself one day.

All this
quiet contemplation while waiting for the birds to get closer is now an
essential part of the fun for my photography on Hilbre and the Dee. As is the
wonder of imagining where the bird whose image I will look at on the computer
screen this evening is going next, where will it nest? How will it do? Will it
pass through Hilbre on its way south in the autumn? Questions, mysteries.

It is
time to stop being so cerebral and to actually get some pictures. Birds are now
in range so I snuggle (is snuggle the right word for such an uncomfortable
perch?) down into the crevice in the rock I have selected and start shooting.

As usual
with this plan it all happens very quickly, the tide here can be swift,
although with today’s high pressure weather system it doesn’t zoom in with its
usual gusto.

The
Dunlin scurry over the rocks, a lone Turnstone whizzes past with them. The
camera starts to click with activity after a dormant hour waiting for tide to
usher the birds in.

I see
the Dunnies just being Dunnies. They haven’t noticed me, my drab clothes,
unassuming manner and uncomfortable hiding place have seen to that. I can
observe their natural behaviour. Some clearly have their minds on the imminent
breeding season. Males bump and barge into each other showing off to
prospective mates. Some are mindful of the miles that lie ahead and spend time
preening feathers in preparation for the flight to come.

A few decide a rest is
required, conservation of energy for the flight seems to be their priority.

A
handful sing, it is beautiful sound.

The show
is over in no time. I don’t see what spooks them, it may have been the
Peregrine, it may have been a false alarm. Whatever it is all the birds go up
in a rush, I don’t feel a whoosh of air from their wings but I expect one, the
noise is huge. They twist and turn low over the water and wheel around the
north end of the island where I lose them from view. The enigmatic flock.

The
rocks are silent before me. I don’t move, I remain and sit for a while thinking
about the Dunlin until the tide starts to lap at my wellington boots. Only then
do I pack up the camera and return to the sanctuary of the island.